Revoutionary Regrets
by Erizaveta
Summary: It was the Revolutionary War. England refuses to let America go and America declared war. At the end, America regret, and visit England. First fanfic, critiques and reviews wanted please! PIcture belongs to NessieMcCormick from Devianart, not me!


**A/N:**

 **Üdvözlő, everyone! I am Erizaveta (Pen-name, of course, I'll be freaking out if my name is the same as Hungary's), and this is my first fanfic! I'm... not usually the type to go around showing off my writings (I have tons of them) to everyone I meet, but... you know, I better open up. To be honest, my best friend says that she realized that I only have like (haha, Poland), 5 friends and barely talk to anyone else. Then one of my friends introduced me to Hetalia and I kinda liked Hungary's attitude (and her frying pan) so now my friends call me Hungary. So... yeah. By the way, I strongly discourage swear words, so I replaced the bad word in this story with 'schist'.Okay, enough of my babbling. Enjoy my story!**

England knocked quietly on America's door. "America," he said, "do you want to have tea?" He stood there silently, facing the door that was the only barrier between himself and his little brother America. _Only that,_ he thought, _both of us_ _have no barriers between us. Both of us are unseparatable._

 _Or are we?_

England shook his head, driving the unpleasant thought out of his mind. He furrowed his thick eyebrows. America had not answered his call. "America?" He called louder. "Do you want to have tea?"

"Oh, England!" A muffled voice answered from behind the door. The door opened, revealing a slightly tired-looking America. "Y-Yeah. I guess so."

England narrowed his eyes. "What's wrong?" He reached out to grasp his hand, only for America to flinch.

"U-Uh, nothing!" America laughed, but England could hear the strain in his voice. America walked out of the room, turning his head to look at England. "C'mon!"

England shrugged worriedly and followed.

They were enjoying the tea England's maids had prepared for him when America put down his cup. "England." His voice was low.

England's head snapped up. The bubbly America had never spoken in that tone before. "Yes, America?"

America cleared his throat nervously. He raised his head and declared loudly. "I want independence."

Betrayal. That was the first thing England felt. He took a double take. "W-What are you talking about?"

"I want independence." America repeated. "My men want independence."

 _No._ The cup of tea in England's hands fell onto the ground, shattering pieces of china and splitting tea all over his carpet. "T-This isn't April Fools Day, you know."

"I know!" America suddenly slammed his hand onto the table. "I. Want. Independence." He stood up. "I'm not your little brother anymore, England." He stared into his eyes, hard and emotionless, "Give me independence, or I'll declare war." He spun around and stormed out of the room, leaving England with his mouth open.

It was pouring over the battlefield. Icy raindrops ran down England's neck in streams, drenching his clothes. The torrent blocked out all noise. It was obvious that England had refused America's demand on being independent. England faced America, panting heavily and bleeding from his wounds. England had a bullet through his shoulder, which was streaming blood down his arm, mingling with the blood from the gash on his arm, both made by America himself. Why? England gritted his teeth, fighting back tears. Why would his cute little brother declare war? England's grip on his arm tightened.

America had his musket pointed straight at him, his whole army poised to attack, while behind England, there was no one. England's usually calm demeanor was now contorted in grief, anger, betrayal. Mostly betrayal. "Why?" England shouted above the roar of the rain. His voice broke. "Why!"

America straightened, he growled, no signs of regret in his voice. "Hey, England... I want freedom after all." He continued. "I'm not a little child anymore, nor your little brother—"

 _No! No! You're wrong!_

"Now, I am seceding from you!" America declared. His face hardened in anger.

Shocked, England's face went slack. _No… This is impossible. Why must this happen?_

Gritting his teeth in anger, he tightened his grip on his gun and charged. "I wouldn't allow you-!"America's angered face turned into a somewhat shocked expression. Just as England's gun was about to be forced into America's face, he blocked it with his musket. But the momentum had forced the musket out of America's hands, landing with a clatter a few meters away from where the two was standing.

He was unarmed. England stopped, the tip of his gun just centimeters away from America's face. "Your incompetence is outstanding, you twat." He panted out, his voice tinted with pain. England stepped closer to America.

An officer behind America gasped and shouted. "F-Fire!" The soldiers immediately pointed their muskets at England, prepared to shoot.

America leaned back, staring cross-eyed at the tip of England's gun, breathing heavily.

 _Shoot him._

 _No. H-He's my brother._

 _Shoot him! He's a traitor. He betrayed you. Shoot him!_

 _No!_ England thought. _I can't shoot him!_ Trembling slightly, he lowered his gun. "There's no way I can fire… Fool…" England struggled to contain himself, the memories of his cute little brother rushing into his mind… Not this… this pathetic excuse of a _nation._

 _Why must he change?_

England's dam of churning emotions broke. His hand went slack. His gun fell onto the ground. Falling onto his knees, England squeezed his eyes shut. "Damn it! Why! Schist…" His shoulders shook. Tears rolled down his eyes together with the rainwater. He missed his little brother so, so much… Why does his brother have to turn out this way? England's tears poured out of him like the torrent of rain, mixing with the raindrops. He felt vulnerable, but he didn't care. All he felt was grief.

America breathed. "England…"

England remembered the time when he found America, so small and so cute… He had said, " _Let's go home_." He was sure they held hands that time. That time… England's shoulders shook harder as he choked back a sob.

"You were so big then…" America continued, his voice tinted with… was that regret?

 _No…_

He raised his head, emerald eyes red from crying. Then they widened. America's eyes _were_ filled with regret. Then America blinked once, and they were now once again void of emotions.

America picked up England's gun and pressed it against his throat. "Declare that I'm now independent."

 _What? No way… This is impossible!_ England bit his lip until it drew blood. _America_ _… Why must you do this?_

"Never!" England spat blood at America's face, struggling to get up, but he fell back onto his knees again. _Bloody hell… I lost too much blood…_ He looked down. He was half covered in blood. His gun pressed tighter onto his throat, forcing him to look up.

America's eyes met his. "Declare." He growled. With a jolt, England realized that America's hand was shaking.

England decided to put that aside for now. He muttered. "I… I declare—"

"Louder!" America shouted, making England jump. "Louder until everyone can hear you."

"I… I declare… I declare you, The United States of America, independent!" England shouted, his voice breaking. He bent over, shaking like a leaf. "Happy now, America?" The pain in his heart was tenfold more painful than his arm wounds.

All at once, the American troops cheered so loudly it could be heard over the torrent of rain. "Good." America snorted, lowering his gun. He suddenly raised his foot…

…And literally kicked mud into England's face.

Gasping, England spit mud out of his mouth and looked at America incredulously. His dear little brother had really changed, hasn't he? He had just kicked mud on his face… Still America's eyes read, _I'm so sorry, England. I have no choice._ England bit his lip, realizing the truth. _No choice…_ England suddenly felt a sharp pain on his right arm and cringed in pain.

Black spots danced before his eyes. _Crap… I'm losing too much blood…_ England squeezed his eyes shut, tears still running down his face. He fell limp. His face crashed onto the muddy dirt. England was defeated. He heard cheers.

"VICTORY! England's defeated!"

America pulled nervously at his tie, standing outside England's house. It was really a beautiful building, with a neat lawn with trimmed flowering bushes and a stone path leading to a white house with bow-shaped windows and tiled roofs. But ever since the Revolutionary War, it was shrouded with a dark cloud, looming over them.

America stepped onto the porch of England's house, jabbed with a sense of regret _. I repay England like that… I'm such a terrible brother… But I had to do it for my men… Damn it. Why must it be so difficult?_ America knocked on the mahogany door, which was answered by a tired-looking maid.

"Good evening, sir. Are you looking for someone?" The maid said.

"Erm… I'm Alfred F. Jones; I'm looking for Arthur Kirkland." America said.

"Oh! Please, please come in." The maid said, ushering him into the house. America sat on the chair where he had sat when he had told England he wanted independence. Now, he was filled with regret and nostalgia. The place didn't even change, except for the thin layer of dust. Did he even forget to dust the house after the war? "Please wait here for a while, Mr. F. Jones." She said before retreating into the kitchen. Before long, she came back with a steaming cup of tea. "Sorry for the wait," she whispered, "Welcome back."

America eyed the maid. "Can I see Arthur?" He sipped the tea.

The maid's eyes flitted around the house. She lowered her voice. "I'm sorry, but Sir. Arthur had never come out of his room ever since the war. He said that he do not want any visitors."

America tightened his jaw. "Let me see Arthur. I want to see him."

The maid bowed low. "Very well, Mr. F. Jones.

The room was dusty.

And when he meant by dusty, he meant _dusty._

Like, every furniture was covered by a layer of dust. In the darkness, he could see dust particles land on America. At the corner of the room, he noticed a small lump on the bed. He headed towards the bed.

A small stab of guilt racked him. He lowered his head in shame. England had taken care of him for so long, yet he repaid him by declaring a war against him. What a terrible brother he was.

With a slightly trembling hand, he reached forward and uncovered the person's face. It was England under the covers. America gasped softly at how terrible he looked. England's hair was in a mess, his usually calm face was contorted, maybe in a nightmare, into a pained face. His face was flushed with fever, the thick eyebrows that America had seen so many times in his childhood knitted into a scowl, teeth clenched.

"E-England?" With a jolt, he realized that England's wounds were still healing, wrapped tightly in bandages, slightly stained in now dried blood. _Nations weren't supposed to heal this slowly!_ America panicked. He hurried rummaged for bandages, which were blessedly just beside England's bedside and ripped off an ample amount of bandage and with the first-aid skills he knew (he don't know much), he rebandaged the wounds, especially the arm wound America gave him.

After a while, America had finished his job. He looked at England sadly. "I'm sorry, big brother." He whispered. He turned around and was about to leave the room when he heard a barely audible voice _. "America… Why… I'm so sorry…"_

He spun around and relaxed, much to his guilt. England was just talking in his sleep. Now stony-faced, he left the room, regret filling his heart at every step.

After a few days, an anonymous person left a letter on England's doorstep.

 _I'm so sorry, big brother._

 ** _*Tears trickle down my eyes*_ Oh mien gott I feel so bad now. I'm going to crawl into a hole and die. Viszlát, everyone!**


End file.
